


Indissoluble

by ljs



Series: Political Disasters [1]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Brexit vote hits Finn hard. Liz deals with him, and the nasty little realizations that come along too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indissoluble

"Finn, please stop stalking the halls of Scotland Yard like, I don't know, some kind of Shakespearean ghost," Liz says at the end of a bitterly long day – 

Which had begun with the sound of a single shattering glass at dawn in her flat, when Finn had gotten up first and seen the first reports of the Leave majority. The news had prompted him to throw his (empty) orange juice tumbler at the wall, where it had made an ungodly mess. Even now, she tries not to think of her deposit, but think of Finn. 

He's basically a wounded… apex predator of some kind, she can't think of the exact comparison because Jesus, this shitty day. But anyway, he's hurting.

And now that she's said something, she wishes she hadn't. If a person's eyes could actually contain flames, his would.

"I'd fucking prefer to be Banquo's ghost at this moment," he snarls. "Because then I could fucking _haunt_ the drooling, inbred cockstains who perpetrated this insanity." 

"Well played," she says under her breath, because he's been spitting out zingers like this all day. It's like he's possessed by the spirit of Malcolm Tucker or something. But again, he is in a bad, bad place.

They spent the morning on the phones to some of their partners in policing – Berlin, Barcelona, Paris – reaffirming that London and the Metropolitan Police Force see themselves as inextricably part of the European commons. They were both aware that they had nothing to offer as security for their good faith, as goddamn Helene in the Paris Police Prefecture had pointed it out in that speakerphone call. "What did your Hamlet say? 'Words, words, words.' That is all you can give us," she had said coolly, and clicked off. Liz and Finn had sat there, silent, in the empty glass-walled conference room for a frozen, heartsick moment. PR didn't work if there wasn't anything behind it. And Finn, for all his antediluvian secrecy bullshit when he's spinning, believed -- believes -- in the common good.

(Five minutes later she'd caught Finn doodling ways to spin a refusal to accept the referendum vote, which gave her at least a little smile. By four o'clock this afternoon he'd come up with 31 alternatives to exit. She's almost proud of him.)

Team that with Charles agonizing over whether or not he should say something, and Sharon trying a power play, and the massaging of media when the first reports of racist harassment had started coming in, and Liz is just about as pissed off as Finn. But it's not really her country. It's not her pain that matters.

What matters right now is that this injured asshole in front of her is hers. She needs to manage his anger.

"Okay. Okay, look, let's take the phones and get out of here," she says, going into full crisis-manager mode. "You didn't eat lunch, and you know hunger makes you a raging fuckwit."

He draws in a venomous breath, ready to annihilate her, but she steps up and covers his mouth with her hand. (She prays fervently that he doesn't bite her palm, and she is rewarded. He clearly thinks about it, but is at least this much restrained.) "Finn," she says, gentling her voice, "we've done what we can for right now. Let's go home." When his eyes flash, she amends, "My home."

She'll think about forgetting that little distinction later, she tells herself. She can't deal with it now.

When she removes her hand, he glares at her for a long, long moment. It is so completely wrong that she feels the impact of his glare in a long, liquid ripple along her spine and below. It is so unfortunately standard operating procedure with the two of them – fury and lust entwined in an unbreakable embrace.

Now that she thinks of it, she can work with lust. She smiles at him.

"Come on, Finn," she says, and tugs on his loosened tie, and all but drags him out of his messy office and down the hall to the elevators.

It's actually borderline terrifying that he comes with her without saying anything.

They don't speak on the way back to the flat, either. They sit in a half-full, silent Tube carriage, everyone cloudy-gloomy (what with London voting as it did). She finds herself watching the two of them in the reflection in the opposite window: he chewing his gum furiously, eyes cold and aimed up at the ceiling; she touching his leg, holding on to his tension, keeping him with her.

Funny. She hadn't realized she was holding on so hard. She doesn't want to deal with that right now, either.

When they climb out of the Underground and stand in summer twilight, she takes his hand. "We need to grab something to take home. We've got wine there. You good with a curry?"

"Why not. Only a matter of fucking time before some xenophobic wanker tries to outlaw _that_ ," he says, and storms off in the general direction of their – her – local Punjabi joint.

She follows, and since he isn't looking at her, she lets herself laugh. It feels good in this hellish day.

After they get their food, they head to her place. She finds herself watching him again as they walk: his hair tossed by the wind into uncontrollable furious curls, his sharp eyes, his long stride that reminds her of the power in his legs. There's gold around the edges of this grey world, and some of it is spilling over onto him.

When did she start seeing him in this rosy glow, she thinks, meaning more than just this evening, and now fear curls together with lust and fury, and she needs a little reassurance herself.

So when they're inside the flat, she puts her food and her phone on the kitchen counter and then grabs his suit-coat lapels. He's on his way to the wine rack, so for a moment they teeter, unsteady, until he finds his center. As he opens his mouth to speak, she says, "You want a different… distraction… before we eat?"

His eyes narrow to blue-lit sparks. His hands cover hers. It's quiet in the flat, as if the outside world has dropped away. 

It's just Finn and Liz now.

Which means she shouldn't be surprised, although she kind of is, when he picks her up. As if by instinct her legs go around his waist, and she's holding on, holding on to his tension, keeping him with her. One of his arms bands around her body, and his other hand slides into her hair, tugging almost too hard.

Fear, lust, fury, and extra fear. They're not supposed to feel like this. 

He moves forward until her back is up against the cupboard door, until she can feel him hard against her, already grinding. "Let me," he says, deep and angry. She's not the target of that anger, though, and she doesn't know how she knows that.

"Let you what?" she says, disoriented by all this goddamn feeling.

"This," he says, and grinds harder in a slow circle, until she is trembling, wishing away their clothes and the day. "Please, Liz. Let me."

It's the mix of his vulnerability and his sheer righteous rage that always gets her, she thinks, and says with only the slightest catch in her voice, "You do you, babe. I've got you."

"Other way around," he mutters. His hand has let go of her hair and is already unzipping her trousers and shoving them down past her knees. One long finger finds her, and it's starbursts-behind-her-closed-eyes time.

Oh shit, she thinks, and when he rips her panties, she thinks oh shit oh shit oh shit –

And then he unzips himself, and her hands go to him, and she stops thinking.

Cursing, he grabs his wallet out of his back pocket, and she fumbles out a condom. He rips open the packet, growling a little, and she closes her eyes again and arches up in search of something, who the hell knew what, and before she can say 'special relationship' he's in, balls deep. 

"Liz," he says, broken, and she gives him back his name, and she lets him go.

Cupboard's hard against her back and head on every thrust, he's hitting every sweet spot she has, she's lost, she's so fucking lost without him and this is so wrong, so wrong, so wrong so wrong so wrong –

And then she comes hard, surprised by everything, and he follows with a long, long groan, and she can't understand why this feels right.

Still inside her, he leans forward and rests his head on the cupboard door besides hers. This close, she can feel the hammering of his heart, or maybe it's her. His weight, heavy and warm, makes her realize that even fucking her against the wall he'd been thoughtful.

And, as if he's telepathic, he stills her with one hand to her thigh. "Don't put your feet down," he says, husky, "you lost your shoes and there's still some glass on the floor from this morning."

She lost her shoes, she thinks, and flexes her bare feet to prove it. He groans again, and then carefully slides out, and carries her to the –

"Kitchen counter, Jesus, I eat here!" she complains.

"Clean up after yourself later," he says, and lets her down.

Bare-assed on the counter, she glares at him. "It's that kind of bullshit that leads to votes like today's," she starts – and then closes her mouth when he whirls at her and gives her the Finn Kirkwood Glare of Ultimate Fuck-Off.

It'd be ridiculously hot if he weren't standing there with his trousers around his ankles, his cock just visible under his dress shirt. And she'd laugh, except the last of the sunset is pouring through her windows, and there he is. Finn. Her Finn.

Jesus Christ, _her_ Finn.

So, with due care for leftover glass, she kicks off her own trousers (currently hanging on one ankle), hops down from the counter, and then reaches up to kiss his cheek. "Hope you feel better now, asshole," she says. "You want your sweatshirt from my closet? I'm going to put on something less fucked-in, I can get you something of yours."

He pauses. She can almost see him do a conversation-tree in his head, an if-I-say-this-there-might-be-dragons process. She bites her lip on her smile. He says, finally, "Thanks."

"For what?" she says.

He narrows his eyes.

She lets her laugh go. "Okay. I'll figure it out," she says, and swaggers out of the kitchen.

"I'll plate the food," he calls after her. "Pour the wine."

"Thanks," she says.

"For what?" he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Fuck you," she carols, and keeps going.

She's stuck with him, she knows now, he's stuck with her. They're an indissoluble unit, God help them both. No referendum can save them now.


End file.
